


Words of Wisdom

by jenna_thorn



Category: Jhereg
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-21
Updated: 2006-04-21
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>character study</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words of Wisdom

**Even a friendly smile shows fang.**

The rattle of a metal tipped scabbard is loud against the stone of the courtyard. The Great Hall or the private rooms are the place for duels or political posturing, for polite debates over history or more heated arguments about vineyards. Such noise does not escape the carpets of the house proper. Yet here are two bravos, reckless children of reckless Houses and grasping homes, struggling for footing on the cool stone floor. 

Her hand, raised so often in welcome though now in warning, is pushed to the side, abraded, however slightly, by the couched metal on the back of an overembroidered glove. She recoils as much in surprise at the affront as at the blow itself. 

A quiet presence soothes her and places his hand under her elbow. She warms the top of his hand with a brush of her own satin skin before he steps forward to the combatants who bluster into abashed silence. Morrolan smiles at his guests, but he bows to his seneschal. 

**If you want someone to listen - whisper.**

Their voices carry down the gentle curve of the hall, bickering as ever. How could they possibly have been surprised to discover they were siblings? Aliera and her levitation and Vlad and his bluster and she cannot keep a smile from her eyes as they posture at one another. So like a teen he is, and of course, she is young, but she'll grow out of it, and he won't. How can they face mortality so easily? So little time. But it justifies his exuberance, his noise, his rashness. Nothing, of course, could do so for Aliera. But then, who would need to explain these people trading insults as affection, these people of whom histories will be written? The Witch Lord, poison at his hip, glowering benignly from the window. Adron's daughter, shaking spilled wine off her fingertips and arguing with an Easterner as though he were an equal. These voices will ring through history. She can only hope for a judicious editor. 

She fills the doorway, a silken curtain, waiting for them to see her, allowing Aliera a moment to sit, the hem of her skirt fluttering over the absurd spell, letting them face her fully, before nodding to Morrolan and relaying Zerika's command. 

**Subtlety is an art.**

She nods to Kragar in the corner; Vlad follows her line of sight and twitches. The jhereg's tail flicks twice; she's fairly confident that they are communicating, and when Vlad rolls his eyes a moment later, even more so. She leaves the lord and his guests to their intrigue. Maps are splayed haphazardly over the inlaid table, scrolls spill to the floor. There would be many hours before dawn. 

Eventually, she would offer spiced tea to those who stood weary guard for survivors of the political storm that had rocked the castle as no mere hurricane could. A cup of tea, a graceful gesture, a signal to lay down arms, something to draw this day, this night, this event, to a close. Works of music need a coda to bring the audience to themselves, and storms must break to a new shoreline. 

The others, both lords and guardsmen, pass unseeing before Kragar standing silently along the wall, but she brushes his cloak in silent greeting and he starts, then makes a rueful moue. 

He accepts the cup from her with a bow, just a bit too deep, his eyes showing a weariness that predates this current crisis. 

She will not ask, cannot pry. She can, however, stand beside him, so she does. 

**Everything responds to kindness. No one shares the same definition of kindness.**

A bit of fruit, too dry for the table, not ripe enough for preserves, is slipped into her sleeve and left on the library shelf within Rocza's reach. She places the wine tray and sets a second cooling spell with a wave of her hand. A twitch of the curtain will keep the sun away from the edge of Aliera's usual seat. She leaves the library without a word and circles the tables in the Hall, fluttering to a stop before an ancient Dragon who pulls her to the side to extol the virtues of Morrolan's cook. She welcomes the flow of words as he praises Morrolan, exclaiming how no one else provides such a feast of delicacies, deploring the current trend of over-spicing. Why in his day, women were more beautiful, children were obedient, and heroes walked the earth. He sees only her returning smile, patting her hand, such a good girl, lovely, yes and not her soft gesture that sends two tunic-clad servants in motion swiftly replacing trays out of the count's line of sight. 

**A jeweled scabbard still holds a weapon.**

The bumbling lord, his cloak bright with blue embroidery over white satin, blatantly dismisses her, his eye turning to the guard at the edge of the room, running appreciatively over the show of stone and steel. 

She notes his stance, the way he allows himself to sag when the guards turn away, the rough edge of callus at his fingertips and the softened edge of the sole of his boot, the dye shade change at the shoulder of his cloak. 

She smiles. 

The challenge you expected is here, my lord, she thinks to Morrolan. 

Shall I inform your captain of guard? Ah, no need. 

She wonders, not for the first time, if Vlad is himself aware how much his posture changes, how he only toys with his moustache when a dzur or an orca is about. With anyone else she would know. A Yendi would be more overt if it were accidental, subtler if it were deliberate. 

She could make a lifetime of study of this Easterner. 

**Immortality is in our acts. None of us live forever.**

She can feel the ache through her body, though she has neither, no ache, no body. She can feel the feathers of her mind ruffle into place along the blade that has become her soul, crowned by gold, a Great Weapon. 

She can feel the Easterner, the assassin, the Jhereg, her friend, scrape his concern tinged with curiosity along the outside of her thoughts, but she sets him aside, turns inward to explore. He'll simply have to forgive the discourtesy. A lady needs a bit of privacy, after all.


End file.
